Movie Knight in Anor Londo
by DasCheesenborgir
Summary: Don't drink Estus, kids.


**For the sake of all of us, don't even ask where the fuck this idea came from.**

**0-0-0**

Through the filtered glow of Gwyndolin's old Blue Eye projector, a pair of…

Ornstein squinted beneath his helm, having to blink a few times to make sure that he was seeing this right through the grainy shroud cast over the image.

"Are those… crows?"

"Shh!"

He fought the urge to grumble as Priscilla and Smough hissed back at him, as they always did whenever he chose to bring up a legitimate and logical question of course.

That thought suddenly reminded him of the warm and fuzzy bulk of snow white fur pressed against his armor on the left, and the rounded metal frame of Smough's armor squeezing him in on the right.

Gwynevere's former quarters didn't seem quite as spacious as it usually did with the addition of a fairly sizeable dragon halfbreed, he supposed.

He settled for just letting a tired sigh escape from the confines of his helm, the obnoxiously small gap at the front of said helm sending it whistling out in a grated and distorted whine.

_Serves me right for picking out a documentary, _he reflected bitterly as he watched the crow… things… snuggle and peck at each others' disturbingly human bodies in the snow.

And some documentary it was- there wasn't even any explanation for what was occurring on screen! Just a horribly compressed moving still of two creatures nuzzling their abominable beaks together, the only noise filling the darkened halls of Anor Londo their occasional, muted croaks.

At least those silly 'Pis Vis Pis' (with a silent 's' as Smough never ceased to remind him) flicks filled the void of silence with obnoxiously exaggerated and cartoonish scrapes of cheap tin on tin- this was just… agonizing.

He shifted around in his seat, or at least as much as he could, being sandwiched between an executioner and crossbreed.

"What is-"

"Shh!"

He craned his neck up to face his… 'companion', glaring back at the molded brass of a stoic, rounded face. If looks could kill, Smough would be scrambling for the flasks of that infernal 'Estus' the Undead cherished so.

_"Nothing's even happening," _Ornstein growled.

The giant man simply pointed a stubby armored finger at the mound of white fur perched next to Ornstein.

He turned his gaze to Priscilla, and found with no small amount of horror that she was staring rather intently at the filtered image projected onto the marble wall. Those unnatural emerald eyes twinkled with fascination as she let the bundle of frazzled red yarn in her pale hands slip carelessly out of her fingers.

Oh, of course. This was probably her first time ever watching a movie- of course she would be practically enthralled by it, no matter how painfully _boring _it was. Gods damn it all.

He leaned back against the sumptuous cushion of the… recently _vanished _Godmother's sofa, the firm and yet compressible velvet surface providing the briefest of reprieves from the boggling insanity of the situation he found himself in.

_Wait… where in Izalith did she get yarn from? _

Before he could follow up on that thought, a grating snicker scraped against his eardrums.

He instinctively whipped his head around to shoot Smough a reprimanding glare, but the executioner was gazing just as intently at the screen as Priscilla was. He could practically _feel _the childish grin beneath the man's mask as he innocently clasped his armored fingers together.

Suppressing a sigh, and seeing no other course of action than enduring an hour or two of watching two… crow creatures (ladies, perhaps? The slender form of their bodies did indeed look very unsettlingly feminine)…

_Oh… oh Gods. _

Only when he turned his gaze back to the screen did he hear the muted croaks turn into a gradual and continuous cacophony of soft moans, the two creatures on screen now rubbing the entire length of their pale, _naked _bodies together.

By Gwyn, this was worse than when he walked in on Artorias and Ciaran…

Another snicker broke the soft… noise, and he realized, as the image shook just so ever slightly, that it was actually coming from the film.

What the hell was this blasphemous piece of cinema? Such… obscenity, on unimaginable levels-

_'Dude… are those things looking at us?'_

_ 'What?'_

_ 'Dude, LOOK.'_

The camera panned around with a sickening lurch, settling on a mob of the crow creatures.

Only these ones weren't copulating; they were gazing directly at the camera with their beady black eyes.

And then, with a flurry of glistening feathers, one of them leaped at the screen.

_'Holy SHIT, Peeve, run! RUN!' _

The camera clattered unceremoniously to the snow, showing only a splash of dark red blood and the very recognizable gold trimmed blue cloth of what was undoubtedly an Astoran Knight's surcoat.

_'Ooohhhh man-!'_

A terrifying screech rang out over the ensuing chaos, and one of the crows landed in a bloody heap right in front of the camera, its eyes splayed open in horror as blood dripped out of its gaping maw.

He shifted (again, as much as he could) uncomfortably in his seat as Smough let out his characteristic chortle, the deeply unsettling noise echoing out from his helmet like the morbid hybrid of a child's laugh and madman's cackle.

The sounds of battle were short lived, quickly dying down with a final, resounding clash of steel on bone. A metal plated hand briefly covered up the screen, thankfully blotting out the gruesome sight of the dead crow…

_'Oh my god- get him off me- get him off me-'_

…only for said hand to slide away, revealing a sight no better than the last.

'_Yeah, I saved you!'_

Whoever the two people in the film were, they were laughing hysterically as one of the crow creatures gripped one of them between its spindly legs, its sharp beak pecking mercilessly at the mop of frazzled black hair of the flailing man.

Their laughter didn't stop, even as more of the creatures hopped down from rickety perches, landing in flourishes of fluttering black feathers and advancing menacingly on the camera.

_'No, you didn't!'_

_'Dude, there's like a hundred million birds coming down at me!'_

Spitting out a glob of congealing blood and casting aside a loose piece of flesh from his face, the flailing man fell to the snow with the crow still pecking at his face, yelling out incoherent sentences between bouts of hearty chuckles.

'_Rrrrip!' _

And on that note, the film cut out in a flurry of static, clearing up and depositing them back at the serene sight of a bonfire, warm orange tendrils of flames wrapping around the decayed iron of the sword protruding from the mound of ash in the snow.

Ornstein blinked, lips pursed in a tight flat line beneath the snarling visage of his helmet.

He slowly found himself receding from the paralyzing disbelief and back into the cramped confines of the sofa he sat on. He could swear that Priscilla was gripping his arm with enough force to snap it off if she yanked hard enough- when he looked down at her, he found a… highly dissatisfied frown creased on her face.

He soon found his mouth sliding into a similar position as he turned his attention to Smough, his voice dangerously low.

"Smough… where did you find this?"

"Doof's Arfifes."

"I know that," he growled, trying to ignore the… _crunches _that Smough spoke between. "I meant which area of the Archives did you get it from?"

"Oh come on, have you _seen _how small those staircases are!? _Make sure you look on the third floor Smough! Try not to break anything Smough! _Can't exactly do both, old buddy!"

A few crumbs of whatever he was shoving through the comically small hole in his helm landed in Ornstein's lap. With a morbid curiosity, he plucked one of them off of his polished gold greaves, sighing again at his own folly really.

Much as he hated to admit it, the executioner had a point. Served him right for sending a man-child out to browse for documentaries.

_How much harm could it do? _He'd wondered back then.

The bone fragment crumbled between his fingers as he pressed down a little harder than he meant to.

Wait… bone fragment?

"Smough, what are you eating now?"

"Dried fingers deep fried in homeward bone dust. Want some?"

Before he could even respond, Smough shoved a whole iron pot full of the repulsive things in front of him, gnarled strips of flesh frozen in convulsing agony.

He had to slap away Priscilla's hand as she reached out for a sampling.

"Don't eat that," he warned.

"Oh, come on Orni," she pouted, "all we ever get to eat is sauteed Mimic tongue."

"Yes, because Gwyn knows that's the only damned edible thing he ever cooks!"

"Hey! You wouldn't have known you appreciated the taste of Mimic tongues if I didn't convince you to try it in the first place!"

He bristled at the comment, now dismissing it with a scoff and trying to turn his attention back to the screen.

'Convince' perhaps gave a little too much credit to Smough. The only thing the executioner had 'convinced' him to do that time was take a chug of Estus, and that… well, that had led to great many other things, things that he supposed it was perhaps good that he didn't remember.

He subconsciously turned to gaze out the open doors of Gwynevere's chambers, able to pick out the drunken scrawls of his own calligraphy vandalizing the far archway, sitting smugly over a crude iron hoop that had been haphazardly nailed to the wall.

_Get Dunked. _

No wonder all the Undead were going Hollow, if they were downing gulps of _that _kind of crap at each moment.

"Mm. Not bad."

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

Priscilla chewed on a handful of the dried fingers, face scrunched up thoughtfully-

'_Oooh my god-'_

'_Run, Peeve, run!'_

-and promptly sent a fresh rain of crumbs pattering onto his lap as she let out a stifled giggle, her laughter mingling with Smough's chortles and the cackles emanating from the film in an orchestra of infernal insanity.

Ornstein could only bow his head, reaching back behind him to pluck at the strands of his helmet plume as if the gesture would grant him some sort of comfort- a rather unhealthy habit he'd developed recently, really.

A few seconds of his fingers brushing through empty air passed by before he realized that he'd been robbed of even that petty comfort.

His gaze turned in horror to the ball of 'yarn' still sitting in Priscilla's lap, sprinkles of dried finger crumbs falling all over it and becoming tangled in the rich red fibres.

"Priscilla."

"F-yeahf?" She responded between mouthfuls of unorthodox snackfood, spitting out a cloud of bone fragments between her lips.

"What have you done to my helmet?"


End file.
